


Sunday Dinners

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: NCIS
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Food Sex, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. "The coffee's mud. Their OJ is like battery acid. The pancakes are good though. Get the pancakes."

Spoilers: Dialogue from 7X24 _"Rule Fifty One"_  


Mike wasn't surprised when he opened his door. He didn't blink. Since Pendleton, since he accidentally left that file on the desk (he must be getting old and forgetful and all), Mike figured he would see the gunny again. Hell, he expected that razor-toothed pup to come back with sand up his ass and a fire in his gut days ago. He read the NIS report from Macy: one drug dealer scumbag by the name Pedro Hernández was found shot and killed in his vehicle, shot from a hell of a distance away.

Well, damn.

Mike stowed the report away, closed three of his cases, pissed off two senator aides, made one more enemy out of the Hoover building, charmed the senorita in HR and waited. But he knew the gunny was going to take his time; he was unpredictable, didn't do what was expected. Leroy Jethro Gibbs only did what _he_ thought was right.

Mike considered the scrap of anger and defiance standing at parade rest under his doorway. He stood with his high and tight only starting to grow out, still looking all spit and polish even in his button down shirt and jeans. Mike clamped his teeth over the dying stub of his cigarette. He chewed the filter thoughtfully. 

"Back again, Marine?" Mike drawled. He got was a blink and a glimmer of realization that maybe showing up at 0700 on a goddamn Saturday morning wasn't such a bright idea. 

"Not anymore." Gibbs stuck out his chin. "It's done." His shoulders straightened, as if he was bracing for what was next. Incoming and the gunny figured it was pointless to duck. Mike nodded to himself with approval. 

"Not what I heard," Mike said gruffly. He didn't step aside to let Gibbs in. Gibbs didn't ask. The gunny stood on his step and Mike knew even if it was raining hell almighty, Gibbs would still stand there.

"No such thing as an _ex_ -Marine," Mike continued, "that's forever."

Gibbs laughed to himself, his face screwing up like it hurt. "Right…"

Mike pursed his lips. He eyed Gibbs. He spat out his cigarette, snuffing it out with a hard twist of a boot heel on it. Mike jerked his head to the side, towards his beat-up jeep parked one wheel up on whiny Perkins' trimmed lawn.

"Come on."

* * * * *

West Saratoga and Marion skirted the edge of a shrinking downtown Baltimore. The area was too far away from Inner Harbor to cash in on the wide-eyed tourists taking pictures of rowhouses older than him. The area was also still trying to decide if it wanted to be a charming place of old bricks or a shiny eye sore full of office buildings. Driving around bulldozers half-done with tearing up roads was a pain as well.

And there, under a church steeple's shadow, past the unspoken border of Charles Street, across from some new coffee house that looked like everyone else's, was ole Liberty's Diner.

It wasn't much now. Hell, Mike figured it hadn't been much even when it first opened. It saw the last World War, survived the Sixties and the hippies and looked like an old Amtrak train car someone pissed on. It didn't fit the area's ambitions. But the food was cheap—a rare thing these days—and the steeple's shadow cloaked it so on certain days, it looked all pretty and nostalgic-like, not dented and crappy.

Mike parked his jeep in front of its deliveries driveway, stuck his NIS parking permit behind the windshield. Not that Metro recognizes it. He'd been hoping someone would take the pathetic tin can away, but so far, no one was dumb or desperate enough to steal it.

"I have MREs in my pack, sir," Gibbs commented after he gave the diner a once over.

"Don't call me 'sir'." Mike grumbled. "I work for a living." He glowered at the gunny over his shoulder.

Gibbs' face was suspiciously bland when he replied, "Whatever you say, sir."

* * * * *

Mike took the booth at the back corner. No one stopped him, the waitress only giving Mike a nod as she patrolled up and down the tight aisle, scanning for empty mugs to refill. His job never allowed him to become a regular here, but the diner was often empty so they didn't care where he sat.

The red rubbery texture stitched to look like leather creaked under Mike when he dropped into the seat, his back to the window, facing towards the door. Gibbs paused by the table edge; he was going to take that position. At least the desert sands hadn't rotted all good sense out of him.

Mike grunted, gesturing towards the seat in front of him. 

Gibbs slid into the offered seat without a sound. He sat there, his eyes on Mike, his mouth set like he's holding back whatever he was going to tell Mike.

The diner was quiet even though it should be the breakfast rush. Mike could hear snatches of conversations about the opening ceremony in Albertville; some still reveling the Bills' defeat by the Redskins. He scoffed to himself. A part of him was envious though. Most his conversations these days were over dead soldiers and who was trying to blow up whom.

Mike reached over for the laminated oversized menus corralled between the ketchup and mustard bottles.

"The coffee's mud," Mike announced as he peeled the menus apart. He caught a whiff of dried maple syrup before he passed one menu over to the gunny. "It'll do if you don't care about your stomach and you like getting slapped in the face."

"Not particularly hungry right now," Gibbs muttered. He turned over the menu, but Mike suspected it was more out of Parris-schooled politeness than actual hunger.

"Their OJ is like battery acid," Mike went on over him. He shrugged. "The pancakes are good though. Get the pancakes."

Gibbs ordered steak and eggs.

_Smart ass._

Mike waited until their food arrived: a steaming stack of buckwheat cakes topped with a melting scoop of salty butter. He could see Gibbs tracking him as he cut a wedge of pancakes with his fork, drown it in thick, smoky sweet smelling maple syrup (place gets real syrup but only has the girly pink fake sugar packets). Mike makes a point to jam a bite big enough to be two into his gaping mouth. He chewed exaggeratedly and points to the steak and eggs with his fork.

"Should have gotten the pancakes."

Gibbs made a sound bordering on insubordinate. He jabbed into the yolks and watched the yellow liquid ooze all over his steak. He smeared a toast tip across the goop and chewed off the dripping golden corner.

Mike made a face as he gulped down some coffee. He slapped a hand over his mug when the waitress approached.

"Just get me a beer instead, sweetheart," Mike called out. He glanced back at Gibbs. He folded his arms across his chest.

"Not even gonna ask you where you've been." Mike scratched his bristly jaw. "Guess the question is, where you going?"

Gibbs' fork hung above his plate. He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again, but all he could offer was a subdued "I don't know." The gunny went back to his food; up and down like a damn robot. If the food was bad, Mike doubted he noticed.

Mike watched until Gibbs finished his toast, coating it all with yolk and tearing off pieces like a stray dog, then setting them aside. The gunny screwed up his face, raised his fork but never took a bite. Grief twisted an appetite. Didn't matter if you got your blood or not. Can't shake off grief like a coat.

When it looked like Gibbs was about to do the same to the slices of steak as he had his toast, Mike scoffed loudly. He tossed his fork onto his plate.

"Look at you." Mike shook his head. "All self-loathing and misery." He grunted as a cool, sweating beer bottle was set down with the check. He popped the cap, curled his hand around its sweating neck and took a long draught. "You make me sick." He raised an eyebrow at Gibbs. "Come here to mope?"

Gibbs grimaced. He studied Mike with an intensity Mike knew came from a sniper's eye. Whatever the gunny saw must have surprised him because Gibbs' eyes widened then lowered, his brow knitted in thought. He took a deep breath, his mouth twisting to a smirk that was more self-deprecating than smug.

"Nope." The gunny set down his fork and met his gaze squarely. "Came for a job."

Mike had lifted his beer when Gibbs finally spoke. He sputtered. "My God, you really want to be a cop?" He set the bottle down with a _thump_. He arched an eyebrow at him. "You got to let a lot of old stuff go," Mike warned. "Learn a lot of new stuff to take its place. Think you can do that?"

The shadows that trailed Gibbs retreated, enough to reveal a determined glint. If it weren't so goddamn early in the morning, Mike would be impressed.

"I think," Gibbs told him in a quiet voice, "I'd be a good cop."

Mike studied the tensed jaw, the grip around Gibbs' fork. He shrugged.

"Ah hell," he grumbled. _Might as well keep you where I can see you._ He eyed the coffee-stained check the waitress had set down with their food. He wadded it up and tossed it over to Gibbs, who caught it like it was a booby trap.

"In that case, you're buying," Mike declared. He grinned, baring his teeth. "Probie."

Gibbs eyed the check, shrugged then chucked it back his way. 

Mike snorted.

Hell, the gunny would do just fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. The delivery man arrived smelling like their orders of Chinese takeout like cheap cologne.

No one was hungry.

By the time the delivery man arrived smelling like their orders of Chinese takeout, no one was in the mood for the food everyone had half-heartedly debated just over an hour before.

Well, not everyone.

Gibbs was still in MTAC; had been for the past three hours. He'd growled his order to Ducky. The ME was the only one brave enough to interrupt Gibbs' vigil to remind him that he needed to eat if he was going to wait in MTAC for as long as he thought was necessary.

Gibbs was still waiting. Actually, they all were.

Tim tugged out his carton of chicken lo mein. The white box with the red illustration of a rickshaw and pagoda was slightly damp from the collected steam of similar cartons huddled inside the same bag. He pulled out Ziva's vegetable fried rice, Abby's black bean chicken, Palmer's beef chow fun, Ducky's steamed sea bass, Gibbs' wonton soup and Tony's—

With a jolt, Tim realized he'd automatically ordered Tony's usual sweet and sour pork. He glanced up and saw Ziva by his desk, her carton of rice in one hand, the other hesitantly touching the sticky sweet and sour carton.

"He may not be in the mood for Chinese," Ziva said quietly, no recrimination in her voice. Her dark eyes flicked over to Tony's desk, empty for the past two weeks while he was playing "Petty Officer Hanson Gray." It was supposed to have been only for a week.

"Tough," Tim said, but he failed to maintain the bravado and squeaked towards the end. Ziva blinked and her eyes slid back to the carton smeared with orange sauce. 

"He should have said something when Gibbs told him at this morning's check-in," Tim hurried on. He remembered standing in MTAC, watching the scratchy satellite image of Tony in uniform and smirking when Gibbs told him they would be eating his food if Tony didn't come back tonight. Tony mocked-saluted then gave himself a headslap at Gibbs' glower and whined to Tim that no one better touch his fortune cookie. He signed off before Tim could retort.

That was before Fornell phoned in.

He told Gibbs about one of their own undercover agents spying DiNutso getting in Captain Steward's car when Steward was supposed to be out of town. The Captain's GPS tracker, in fact, still insisted he was out of town. Abby had thrown Bert at her computer when she couldn't get it to say otherwise.

That was three hours ago. Gibbs had been in MTAC ever since.

Abby and Palmer drifted up to the bullpen minutes later to claim their food. They sat on the edge of Tony's desk poking their food, occasionally nibbling, but no one had finished their meal by the time Gibbs came down the stairs with Ducky.

Tim and Ziva rose as one, simultaneously setting down their cartons and chopsticks.

"Tony?" Ziva asked, one hand on the drawer where she kept her service weapon.

Gibbs grunted, went around his desk, sat down, and peeled the plastic lid off his soup. He tilted the container back like it was a shot, grimacing as he took a gulp of steaming broth. 

"Boss?"

"Tony's on his way back," Ducky explained as he peered into the bag to pull out his food. "He was detained by the FBI."

"FBI?" Tim exchanged a look with Ziva. 

Gibbs took a gulp of the coffee left on his table. He made another face, although it was hard to tell if it was for the coffee or the FBI. "Seems they were in the area when Steward tried to execute DiNozzo," Gibbs bit out, his voice unusually hoarse.

Mouth dropping open, Tim realized there was still food in his mouth. He swallowed hastily while Abby squawked, her carton dropping to the floor. Palmer made a grab for it, rescuing it from becoming an MSG splatter across Tony's desk. Gibbs gave Abby a headshake as she peppered him with "Is he okay?" "Why were the FBI there?" and "When is he getting back?"

"Abby," Ducky chided as he placed a hand on her arm. "Apparently, the FBI had a man inside the shipyards investigating the weapon dealings before Tony went in as Steward's assistant."

"Why did they not tell us?" Ziva demanded, but she was looking at Gibbs, unflinching. Maybe her Mossad training taught her to be impervious to Gibbs' glare.

At the glower shot her way, Ziva meekly sat down and she picked up her food again.

Then again, maybe not.

"They didn't know Steward was involved," Ducky explained when Gibbs wouldn't. "They assured us had they known the Navy was involved, they would have notified us immediately."

Gibbs scoffed. Tim silently agreed.

"So…Tony's all right then?" Tim asked tentatively.

"The agent on scene reported one of their men is driving him back to the Navy Yard as we speak," Ducky told him. He chuckled when Abby squealed and threw her arms around him. 

Gibbs snapped the lid over the quart of soup and focused on emptying his coffee instead.

"I could get you some tea and honey if you prefer," Ducky began, "I don't think coffee would be…" At Gibbs' wordless grumble, Ducky shook his head. Ducky shrugged when Abby's head canted toward Gibbs. 

"I'm afraid he has a touch of laryngitis," Ducky explained before he sat down in the empty desk to Tim's right. Tim could smell the clean bite of the ginger and scallions as Ducky expertly picked out a flaky white morsel of fish. Ducky hummed. "This is very good. It's almost as good as the fish I once had in Xingping, on a fisherman's boat…"

Tim let the lilting reminiscence wash over him as he ate his food. His lo mein noodles were overcooked, a little oily and starchy but the plump bits of tender mushroom and juicy roasted pork that bejeweled the noodles kept jumping in with a burst of salty flavor. He was startled to hear his stomach rumbling though after being quiet for so long. He smiled at Abby when she grabbed a rolling chair from somewhere to sit next to him, knees touching. He could smell the salty, woodsy aroma of garlicky bean sauce of her food. It overpowered the grassy scallion scent of Ducky's fish.

Palmer sat in Tony's chair, wolfing down his food (when he could pick up the wide noodles with his chopsticks, that is) until Ziva complained he was sharing his dinner with her and she did not like the taste of his chow fun—she pronounced it perfectly, Ducky declared—with her fried rice. That wasn't true, of course, but Palmer slowed down enough that he had his eyes up when the elevator doors opened.

"Tony!" Palmer blurted out although it sounded like "phony" with his mouth stuffed with wide rice noodles.

"You're cleaning my desk later, Palmer," Tony said wearily as he shuffled toward his desk. "If I see one noodle— _Hey_ , Abby!" Tony staggered a step as Abby flung herself at him in one of her exuberant, throw-out-your-back hugs. Her borrowed chair was still spinning on its axis next to Tim.

"You're late," Gibbs growled. With his raspy throat, he sounded like a certain dark Jedi.

Despite the smudges under Tony's eyes and the bruise on his jaw, the senior agent still managed a smirk as he looked past Abby, who had attached herself like a koala and was determined to stay where she was.

"I would have been here sooner if I didn't need to explain myself over and over again to the FB 'I don't know' guys." Tony waddled, Abby still treating him like he was her eucalyptus tree, toward his desk. He did a little arm flail as best he could, and Abby hopped back so he could drop heavily into the seat Palmer had just vacated.

"Thanks for convincing them to come in as backup, by the way. Heard you made the SAC cry," Tony added. He sighed as he leaned into his chair. "I could have done without their smug looks though when they busted in, guns blazing."

"They were closer," Gibbs muttered even as a thundercloud blew over his expression. "We were an hour away."

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out slowly. "I guess I could live with that."

"That's the point," Gibbs growled.

Tim dropped his eyes onto his food. He could hear Ducky walking over, tsking as he tilted Tony's face left and right for closer examination.

"Nice uniform," Ziva commented dryly even as she threw Tim a small smile across the room. 

Tim grinned back as he studied the beige dress shirt untucked from formerly ironed slacks. His smile faded, however, when he spied a boot print smudged across the rib area, the front panel where the nametag would have been was torn and ragged.

"Didn't have a change of clothes with me," Tony mumbled as he yawned. He stretched his arms above his head and winced. "This place was closer."

"Any problem breathing?" Ducky angled Tony's desk lamp closer to his eyes. "Any headache?"

"No and no, but my eyes hurt now," Tony groaned as he gently nudged Ducky's hands away. He blinked when Gibbs dropped a carton in the center of his desk. Tony made a face.

"I don't think I'm hungry," Tony mourned. He sniffed the sweet and sour pork and gave a regretful sigh.

Gibbs strode back to Tony's desk, confiscated the carton and swapped it out with his unfinished quart of soup. Abby jumped in, peeling the lid off and shook out both bags of crispy noodles to its top. Tony stared blankly at the golden-crowned mess.

"Coffee," Gibbs croaked as he shoved his gun into his desk. Tim didn't realize Gibbs had had it strapped on the whole time. "That better be empty when I get back."

Gibbs stopped at Tony's desk, his face unreadable. Tony straightened in his seat and Tim caught the brief nod Tony gave and the twitch at the corner of Gibbs' mouth in response before he pivoted sharply on his heel and headed for the elevators.

"Can you pick up one of those chocolate caramel donut things there?" Tony called after his back. When the elevators closed on Gibbs without an answer, Tony glanced over to Ziva with a hopeful look. "Think he heard me?"

Palmer snorted. "Thought you weren't hungry, Tony." He sat on the edge of Tony's desk, missing Tony's glare as he continued to spear more rice noodles with his chopsticks.

"Goes well with soup," Tony mumbled as he poked at the yellow curls, submerging them. He stared at them blankly as one by one, they resurfaced.

"I would suggest you drink that," Ducky advised as he returned to his dinner. "I do believe Jethro was serious about the soup."

"We could get you something else if you want," Abby chimed in. "Maybe pizza—Ooh! How about Italian?"

"The soup's fine, Abs," Tony hedged. "Really."

"Would you like some of my rice instead?" Ziva offered with an elegant lift of her chopsticks. She tilted her head, thinking. "Or perhaps something bland is better."

"Yes," Ducky agreed. "It may be best to avoid anything too greasy or fried. After an adrenaline rush, your digestive system may be easily upset for the next twenty-four hours."

"A salad might be good," Palmer volunteered. "If you're feeling queasy."

"I don't feel queasy," Tony muttered. He squirmed in his seat, though, looking cornered as everyone gathered around his desk.

"How is your stomach feeling? Any nausea? How's the bruising on your side? Don't think I didn't notice, young man."

"Uh…"

"Ooh! Ooh! I know this guy—well, he's a she now, but she knows this great recipe for celery root stew..."

Tim watched Tony fidget in his seat as everyone around him began tossing out suggestions; they flew back and forth like a tennis match. Tim winced. It looked like Tony just wanted to crawl under his desk and grab a nap instead. The soup was barely touched; the crispy curls of noodle bloated with soup were slowly sinking. Tony stared at the mess with sympathy and what looked like envy. 

"There is a place over on M street that does this great detoxing smoothie just for men…"

"Abby, was that the black spotted green thing you brought me last week?"

"Did you like it?"

"Uh, I thought it went bad. I threw it out."

"Jimmy!"

Tim absently twirled his chopsticks, gathering a glistening knot of noodles. He thought about Tony, what he must have been thinking when Steward pressed a gun to his head. 

The chopsticks and its coil of yellow noodles lowered.

Tim wondered what Tony was thinking when he realized maybe no one really knew where he was. Tim then thought about Gibbs, how he went in with thunder in his voice and came out hours later his voice barely a whisper. He thought about Tony, currently staring at his soup, everyone around him pretty much determined to discuss what to feed him to deal with his 'ordeal'. Tony pretty much looked like he did the day he came back from his bout of plague.

So when Tony glanced over to him, his eyes wary, Tim gave it some thought before he met Tony's look with a smirk.

"You owe me $8.45."

The shadows retreated. Tony laughed and threw a once crispy noodle at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3\. "Considering the smell, I will think that a blessing."

Spoilers: 2X22 _"SWAK"_  


When Ziva saw what Tony held in his hand, she almost didn't let him back in the car.

McGee, on the other hand, flipped the locks open, and Tony yanked open the passenger door, scrambling inside with a wheeze as icy vapors rushed in from the drizzle outside.

"Tony," Ziva hissed. Even though it was an American car, Tony's long legs still needed some careful maneuvering before he could fold himself into the backseat.

"I don't know how the Fonz fits in here with his dates," Tony grumbled as he nearly hit Ziva with his sacks reeking of salt and grease.

"Because it's usually a Cadillac," Gibbs growled from the driver's seat. "DiNozzo, either you're in or out. Make up your mind."

"Tony, it's freezing," McGee complained as Tony swore under his breath and whacked McGee on the head with their lunches (Ziva doubted his claim that it was an accident) before finally settling down.

"Ah," Tony sighed. "Better." He pulled at the door, slamming it shut and sealing them against the winter's icy rain.

"Speak for yourself," Ziva snapped as she elbowed him. His thigh was crowding her into the car door on the other side.

"Ow. Watch it, Ziva, or you're not getting your food."

"Considering the smell, I will think that a blessing," Ziva shot back.

Tony snorted before he tugged open the bags and circulated its contents. "With what little money you guys gave me, be glad I didn't just get you bread and water."

To Ziva's surprise though, Tony had gotten her and McGee grilled chicken wraps and side salads. The sandwiches were wrapped in unblemished wax paper; the salad was crisp, green confetti in a clear clamshell box. 

She was no longer impressed, however, when Gibbs received a pulled pork burrito smothered in a spicy smelling sauce and Tony happily attacked a bacon Swiss double burger.

"Wish we could have gotten the surveillance van, Boss," Tony said, his cheeks puffed out like Taya's childhood hamsters when he took another bite. He showed Ziva the half-eaten burger dripping with ketchup, oozing cheese, and escaping shredded lettuce. "Want?"

"No, thank you." Ziva made a face. She took a more restrained bite of her wrap. She savored the chicken dressed with the sweet tangy vinaigrette Tony had chosen for her. She was thankful Tony did not ruin her lunch by slathering it in ketchup or hot sauce. "I must agree, Gibbs. A van would have been more—" She jabbed Tony with another elbow when Tony wiggled too close in order to distribute the water bottles. 

"Watch it!" Tony yelped.

"Tony!" McGee complained when Tony inadvertently kicked the back of his seat with his knee.

"Hey!" Gibbs barked and Tony slumped back in his seat. 

"Comfortable," she finished darkly.

"You need twenty-four hours to requisition a van and we didn't have twenty-four hours," Tony spoke up. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, grimacing when he realized his fingers were stained with ketchup as well. 

Ziva made a face when Tony popped one red-tipped finger in his mouth. 

"If the lieutenant is going to run, he's going to do it as soon as this rain lets up." Tony tossed a wad of paper napkins over McGee's shoulder when he wiggled a hand for them. McGee grumbled as white tissue rained onto his lap. "Am I right?"

Gibbs grunted as he finished the first half of his burrito. When he held his hand out from behind, palm up, Tony promptly placed a neat stack of napkins on it.

Ziva bit back a smile when McGee glowered at Tony in the rearview mirror. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of Tony gingerly lifting up a cardboard cup out of the last sack, a tiny paper tag spinning on a string pinned under the lid.

"Tea, Tony?" Ziva remarked as she watched Tony took its lid off to blow on the amber liquid within. She leaned in and gave it a careful sniff. "With honey?"

"Don't sneeze in it," Tony warned. He pulled the cup away and held it to his chin. 

Ziva scoffed as she sank back into her side. " _I_ , at least, cover my mouth."

"Come on, that room was dusty and I wasn't expecting it!" Tony quickly capped his tea and used the cup to cover his mouth as a cough erupted.

Gibbs never wavered from his scrutiny of their target through the front windshield but Ziva thought she caught his eyes flickering up briefly to the rearview mirror. As well McGee’s, she noted. 

"You called Pitt?" Gibbs said sharply. 

Ziva blinked. "Pitt? Is he an agent?" she asked, but before anyone could answer, Tony slotted his tea into a cup holder and smashed his face into a bent elbow. 

"I take it that's a no," Gibbs bit out.

Tony rolled his red-rimmed eyes when he raised his head. "No, I didn't call him because it's just a tickle in my throat." He gave a few more sharp hacks into his sleeve. 

Ziva's eyes widened as a brief mention teased the back of her memory. 

"Gross," McGee said before he pulled open the glove compartment and rummaged around inside. He pulled out a packet of cherry lozenges and, without turning, tossed them over his shoulder. The bag of medicated candy bounced off Tony's head.

"Thanks a lot, Probie. Give me a concussion instead," Tony groused.

"Better than the plague," Ziva pointed out. She knew she guessed correctly when everyone in the vehicle stilled. McGee lowered his food to his lap. Gibbs hesitated before he continued eating with renewed fervor.

"It's not the plague," Tony said tightly. He tore into his food, finishing the rest of his burger in three bites. He wadded up the wax paper and dropped it into one of the bags. "It's just a tickle in my throat with a side of paranoia." He retrieved his tea from the receptacle and drank noisily from it. He jerked the cup away and fanned his gaping mouth. 

"Pitt, he was your physician?" Ziva considered what she remembered from the background checks she had ordered two years ago. She nodded. "Yes, from Bethesda. Did he say there was a chance the plague would return?"

"It's not likely, Ziva," McGee answered too quickly. He twisted around in his seat and nodded toward Tony. "But he has to be careful of pneumonia and chest colds—"

"And of germaphobic probies," Tony bit out. He glared at McGee until the younger agent squirmed around to face front. Tony then turned his gaze to Ziva, jaw set. 

"Not the plague." Tony popped a lozenge into his mouth. He punctuated the declaration by loudly crunching the candy before washing it down with a more careful sip of tea. He screwed up his face, shoved the tea back into the cup holder again, and coughed into his hands.

No one said anything as Tony coughed and coughed. Ziva had a feeling a helpful pound of her hand on his bowed back would not be welcomed right now. But watching Tony try to suck in a deep breath, fail, and cough again was surprisingly painful. In the back of her mind, she wondered if this was what the others must have felt back then.

Finally done, Tony sat back, winded as he wiped his mouth with a napkin McGee threw at him in a loose ball. 

"Tickle," Tony stressed in a hoarse voice.

Ziva cleared her throat and gave Tony a reproachful frown. "Just as well. You should see this Doctor Pitt—"

"It's _not_ the plague," Tony gritted out, his voice sharpening to an edge that made Ziva blink. Gibbs didn't try to hide his gaze up to the rear mirror this time.

Ziva fidgeted, feeling a pang at the surreptitious looks McGee kept giving Tony through the side mirror, at how Tony pretended not to notice, how Gibbs was not completely successful in hiding his own hooded scowls that reflected off the windshield. The reports on Tony's illness had been sterile in description; lacking details, giving only facts. 

The food on her lap was warm. She cradled it and thought how it easily could have been a messy, greasy burrito.

Tony's hand trembled a little as he reached for the tea, jaw clenching as he held back another cough.

"Seriously, Tony, maybe you should call Dr. Pitt."

"Seriously, McNag, maybe you need to eat your food," Tony growled, his voice growing raspier with each syllable.

McGee must have felt braver in the front seat with Gibbs. "I think it's a good idea to see him before it gets worse."

Thinking quickly, Ziva covered her mouth with her hand and leaned away. "Yes, before you infect us all with your booties."

Startled, Tony sputtered into his tea. McGee burst out laughing before he corrected her with "cooties." Chuckling, barely able to keep his voice steady, Tony genially agreed to let McGee drive him tomorrow to see the doctor about his "booties."

While Ziva pretended to wave Tony's germs away from her with a hand, she caught Gibbs looking at her in the rearview mirror and giving her a brief nod.

Ziva nodded back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4\. "Rooibos are not really tea."

Spoilers: 2X13 _"The Meat Puzzle"_  


Fist inches from the door, Jimmy hesitated. The mansion with its pillars and panels reminded him of Roman buildings in his old textbooks; a connection that only served to make him gulp convulsively at the growing lump lodged in his throat.

The door seemed to suddenly loom high above him. He took a deep breath, squared back his shoulders and knocked, timidly. Then, when no one answered, he rapped at the door harder.

The side window curtain parted when Dr. Mallard lifted it to see who was at the door. When the door didn't open immediately after the flimsy veil snapped back into place, Jimmy began to sweat.

This was a _terrible_ idea. Stupid. Why hadn't Tony said that on the phone when he first brought it up?

"Mr. Palmer," Dr. Mallard greeted as he opened the door. He looked uncharacteristically casual without his usual bowtie, standing in his gray wool cardigan sweater and black slacks. 

"What a pleasant surprise." 

Jimmy was relieved to see the smile offered to him followed by the widening of the door. 

"I wasn't expecting any company this weekend, but please, come in."

"I uh, was coming back from a study session and thought I stop by, Dr. Mallard." Jimmy fought the stammer that usually gave him away. "That bakery I was telling Abby about was on the way, so I…" Jimmy lifted the cardboard take out box embossed in blue lettering with a finger hooked around the cotton string that wrapped around it. The warm scent of butter and smoky spices wafted up between them.

"Ah yes, the shortbread with the tea leaves baked in." Dr. Mallard gestured towards the living room and shrugged one shoulder when they both needed to veer around the cardboard boxes piled like short pillars in the hallway.   
"Abby told me about them a few weeks ago. Thought they might be nice to have them in the office. I meant to buy some to try with Mother but alas…" Another shrug. Jimmy felt like apologizing now. 

"Please excuse the mess. I've been sorting out her things for Goodwill before the move."

The mess, as Dr. Mallard referred to it, was a labyrinth of cardboard packing boxes that gathered in the foyer, lined the hallway like a second wall and snaked into the living room.

Jimmy stood in the center of the room, the pastry box close to his chest. He tried hard not to look like he was staring. It was the first time in the ME's home, but he was at a loss on what he should say. The usual conversational "You have a nice place" felt grossly inappropriate right now.

Something niggled in his memory and Jimmy glanced around him.

"The dogs are gone," Jimmy blurted out. He winced. He looked to the floor but the gaggle of Welsh Corgies Tony had once mentioned swarmed him were absent from the paisley carpet. He swallowed when he thought how much quieter the house now must be.

Dr. Mallard's mouth turned up at the corners but there was a sigh his words. "I wouldn't know what to do with all of them. My schedule is far too unpredictable and they're quite energetic. They really only listened to my mother. The dogs missed her dearly." He stared at his front door. "The day after she was admitted to the nursing home, they waited by the door all day for her return. I was reluctant to part with them then. But now...Abigail and Timothy offered to take them to a family who would like to take them all in. They left last night." The ME glanced around like he'd forgotten where he placed his keys.

"It does seem odd not to hear them barking, but it's for the best." Dr. Mallard offered another small shrug. "I simply couldn't care for them all."

"Tony did say they were a handful," Jimmy remembered. 

Dr. Mallard chuckled faintly and nodded. "They were very taken with him the moment they met him. He believed they were collectively plotting to be underfoot to break his neck each time he was here." He idly picked up a blue dyed leather leash and tucked it into one of the boxes by the couch. It was marked 'Goodwill'. "Abby assured me they're going to a good home." He smiled to himself at a distant _yip_. "Although I found I couldn't give them all away. I've kept one of the less rambunctious ones and my neighbor took in her sibling."

Jimmy caught sight of reddish fur and shiny button eyes staring unblinkingly up at him before scampering away with a click of nails on the hallway hardwood. Somehow, Jimmy felt a little better knowing one of them was still around. 

"I ah, got Earl Grey, Chai, er, some sort of rooibos—"

"Rooibos are not really tea," Dr. Mallard interjected absently, like he couldn't help himself. He rolled a small red ball in his hand, gazing down the hallway before he tossed it. It jingled and Jimmy could hear a frantic scrabble and a high pitched bark. "It's an herb. From South Africa mostly." 

"Oh." Jimmy glanced down at the box he was hugging. Maybe he should have gotten the jasmine one instead? "Well…um, green tea. I also got the green tea ones. I'd never tried the green tea ones but Abby said they tasted floral but I'm pretty sure they're not…" 

"Dr. Mallard—"

Dr. Mallard turned back from the hallway and raised an eyebrow when he saw Jimmy still standing there. "I think, considering we are not at work, it would be fine to call me Ducky." Gesturing towards the couch, he took the box Jimmy numbly gave him and excused himself to go into the kitchen.

Gingerly, Jimmy sat on the edge of the sofa and chided himself for not dressing at least in something other than the faded jeans and the oxford button down. He thought he was going to study for his boards when he'd impulsively called Tony for advice. 

Tony was understandably not thrilled about being called at ten thirty on the rare Saturday morning he was off. However, Tony listened to Jimmy fumble around, debating out loud what excuse he should use to visit the ME before Tony succinctly replied, "Why the hell do you need an excuse?" He hung up without saying good bye.

"Here we go." Dr. Mall—oops, _Ducky_ —returned with the shortbread mathematically arranged on a patterned plate Jimmy's mom would never have taken out except for holidays. The matching teapot wrapped with a towel and corresponding tea cups looked too fragile for Jimmy to handle.

So when Ducky offered him tea, Jimmy accepted the eggshell thin porcelain with cupped hands and drank it cradled like a baby bird because he was too terrified to hold it by its thin, petal shaped handle.

The brew remind him of coffee and licorice and peppermint; a combination that is not Ducky's normal English Breakfast he keeps stashed in his desk at NCIS. It was good, a little on the sweet side, but made sugar unnecessary which was probable why Ducky brewed it.

"Have you checked your glucose today?" Ducky asked. At Jimmy's nod, Ducky bobbed his head as well before offering Jimmy a sand-colored shortbread.

It was the Chai one, shaped like an irregular square, freckled with dots of black and browns. The shortbread melted as soon as he bit into a corner of it. Cinnamon nipped back his tongue before the swirly mix of minty cardamom and warm cloves followed. He nibbled, careful to make sure the crumbs fell onto the saucer.

The decorative sugar crunched under his teeth, loud in his ears. He kept checking but Ducky took no notice as he picked out an Earl Grey one and pronounced it delicious. 

The silence that fell between them was strange because he was too used to the anecdotes that rolled out genially in the morgue. Jimmy didn't mind the stories about corpses wrapped in kite strings washed up on the shores of St Andrews or about his travels during his breaks from Oxford. 

Several times, Jimmy thought about opening his mouth, offering his condolences, sharing memories of the late Victoria Mallard, maybe even give up a story of his own. But as he sat there, in a room that looked like it was out of those BBC shows, with matching porcelain, boxes all around, Jimmy was sure anything he said would be woefully inadequate. He only met Mrs. Mallard a few times, overheard vague references to her declining health. So there were no memories to reminisce over. And he lived too boring of a life (compared to everyone else) to have any interesting stories. He doubted tales about him and Michelle Lee count; not that he wanted to think about that. Not yet. 

Ducky swirled the caramel colored brew before he took a sip, holding the cup by its brim with two fingers rather than its handle, but did set it down on its coordinating saucer. "What were you studying?" 

"Huh?" Jimmy blurted out around the green tea shortbread he crammed into his mouth to abort what was going to come out: some inane question about the autopsy they performed yesterday. The burst of butter flakiness sharpened to the tiny bites of sweet bitterness from the green tea flecks. 

"The library," Ducky said with his usual infinite patience. "You've mentioned you were studying."

Jimmy told him about the assignment he was given in his advanced forensic odontology. He admitted getting caught falling asleep during the lecture on _Arizona v. Krone_ and how he still couldn't get a handle on the mathematics on capillary electrophoresis.

Even though he shouldn't, Jimmy went on and complained about his professor getting the diagnosis wrong and becoming peeved when Jimmy pointed it out because of that case last month they'd autopsied together that contradicted him. Of course, it didn't earn him any points but did provide some entertainment to the rest of his peers, who snickered.

Because he didn't want to sound like he was only complaining, Jimmy then told him about the library he often studied in. He described the corner spot no one seemed to know about: secreted between the shelves of American history and European history. It was against a window that faced the alleyway the university and the library formed. Jimmy recollected how he once snuck in with a sandwich, fell asleep, and had to dial 911 to get out.

It was boring, mundane and Jimmy found himself fidgeting as he tried to read the ME's reaction. He ran a finger around the border of his saucer plate, corralling the moist crumbs together to huddle over a painted ivy leaf. His knee bounced up and down as he went on prattling about the café that was on campus grounds and how they never get his latte right. He kept going there anyway because they still gave him his student discount.

Throughout it all, Ducky sat back, his teacup balanced on his knee as he nodded and listened without comment. He watched Jimmy intently.

"So ah…" Jimmy trailed off. He suddenly found himself out of things to say and on the verge of repeating himself. He adjusted his glasses sliding down his nose. "Is there anything I can do?"

Ducky canted his head. "Do?" he echoed.

"I mean," Jimmy stumbled, "I know you have Abby and Tim taking care of the dogs." He waved feebly towards the boxes. "Do you need help with those? Is there more to pack?"

For some reason, Ducky smiled to himself as he slowly shook his head. "Tony and Jethro helped me pack up everything this past week."

"I could drive them to Goodwill," Jimmy offered.

"Not to worry. Abby has a friend from Goodwill who will be here Monday with a van to pick everything up."

Jimmy fidgeted in his seat. "Do you need a few days off? I could take some extra shifts for you. I don't mind."

"Not necessary," Ducky replied as he sipped his tea. "Ziva helped me with the paperwork from the nursing home. And Director Vance recommended a very capable estate attorney to handle the rest."

"Oh." Jimmy deflated. He poked the crumbs around on his saucer.

"What is it?" Ducky asked gently.

"I uh…" Jimmy flushed. "I wanted to help," he admitted. "I mean, I didn't know your mother…" Oh, that wasn't something to mention. "But uh, I ah…I know you, well, I mean…" He sighed. His chin dropped. He swirled the remaining tea in the cup.

"Everybody seems to know what you need." Jimmy scratched a spot on his jaw. He could feel a flush creeping up his neck. He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I wish…I wanted to help." 

Ducky leaned forward, his eyes bright, his smile a little wider.

"My dear boy, you already have." Ducky patted him on the knee. He lifted up the tea kettle. "Tea?"

Jimmy blinked. His eyes went from Ducky's smiling visage to the teapot. A knot unraveled into warmth in his chest. He grinned and extended his cup.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5\. "Boston cream donut?"

Spoilers: 3X24 _"Hiatus Part 2"_  


"Good morning," Donald greeting his morgue as he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hanger pole by his desk. He frowned mildly at the dark shape lying on one of his examination tables. This wouldn't do. Countless times, he told them bodies mustn't be left unattended in his morgue no matter what the hour.

"Honestly," Donald muttered as he unfurled his scrubs from their packaging. "Do they expect me to cut you open the moment I walk in?"

"I hope not," the shadow quipped.

Donald jumped. 

"Anthony DiNozzo," he exasperated, a hand to his chest. "Are you trying to make me my own customer?" 

"Sorry." Tony sat up with a yawn. He stretched his arms high above his head in a stretch before he reached up and turned on the lamp. 

"I'm not used to my guests talking back," Donald dismissed the apology, his irritation already forgotten when he turned on the main lights. Donald frowned at the new team leader's disheveled appearance. 

"Did you not go home last night?" Donald tsked as he pulled out the paper sack he was going to bring upstairs after he was settled. 

"Was going to, but there was so much paperwork that still needed filing." Tony hopped off the slab. He retrieved his suit jacket and flipped it out, releasing it from its duty as his impromptu pillow. "By the time I finished, there was no point driving home." Tony chuckled when he saw what Donald held in his hands.

"Boston cream donut?" Tony asked hopefully.

"Egg white frittata on wheat," Donald countered.

Tony made a face but accepted the breakfast sandwich graciously. He leaned against the wall by his desk and ate.

"How did you know I didn't have breakfast?"

"Ah, Jethro was always inundated with paperwork after closing any case," Donald said as he shuffled through the stack of forms that he knew weren't in his in-box when he left. "He usually comes in early to get them done." Donald peered over his glasses at Tony. "I assumed you might be busy with the same, but I did not foresee you spending the night."

Tony stopped chewing. He swallowed hard and set down the sandwich on the waxed wrapping on his desk.

"He had time to work on his _boat_ and I was lucky to step out to grab coffee." 

"Jethro delegated," Donald pointed out as he retrieved the scone and little jar of jam buried at the bottom of the bag. They were still warm from Tony's breakfast lying on top of them. He split the pastry open with a fork and smeared it with butter before carefully scooping out the strawberry puree.

"When he was here, you were helping him with the paperwork," Donald continued, "Now that you're team leader, you're _still_ doing the paperwork but…" Donald peered over his glasses at Tony, "there is no one helping you."

Shrugging, Tony peeled off the bread of his sandwich with all the care of an autopsy.

"You do have a senior agent now," Donald reminded him. "Timothy has proven to be capable. You told me that. You would never have made him your second otherwise. You and Jethro do not tolerate fools."

Recapping his sandwich, Tony took another bite. He mumbled around his food.

"Sorry?"

Tony swallowed hard. "Said I didn't want to jinx it."

Blinking, Donald paused from taking a bite of his scone. Vanilla warmed in his mouth before a tart burst of dried currants joined in his palate. He studied Tony before exclaiming a soft, "Ah."

"You haven't truly accepted Jethro has quit yet."

"He didn't quit," Tony griped. He angrily tore off a piece of his sandwich. He chewed exaggeratedly, loudly as he added, "He _retired_."

Donald sighed. "Then why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry."

"Well, you're either upset with Jethro or that sandwich has affronted you grievously," Donald pointed out. "I'm sure it's quite dead, Tony."

It looked like Tony was about to argue but his mouth snapped shut, though not before Donald got an unappetizing glimpsed of masticated egg and bread. At Donald's look, Tony sheepishly accepted the plastic bottle of orange juice he pulled out of another bag.

"I'm not mad," Tony stressed after washing down his breakfast. He crumpled up the wax paper but kept it in his fist. "I just feel like how Martin Riggs must have felt in Lethal Weapon 3." He wiped his fingers clean with one of the napkins still damp from the food's heat. 

Donald thought Tony was taking an unusually long time to wipe his fingers with the napkin, but he waited. He savored the sweetness of the strawberry tempered by the creaminess of the butter, softening from the lingering warmth of his scone. He dabbed a napkin to his mouth and draped it over the remains of his breakfast. Hm, he'll have to remember to find out where the bakery gets their jams.

"You'll do."

Glancing up, Donald considered the crooked twist of Tony's mouth. "Sorry?"

"He said 'You'll do.'" Tony threw up his hands in an unconvincing 'What can I say' gesture.

Donald shook his head. Ah, Jethro, the ties he left floundering behind. He squelched down his own irritation at his old friend. Now was not the time for it. He studied Tony, who stared at a spot Donald couldn't fathom and suspected was as far away as Mexico.

"Well, he never was a talkative kinda guy, was he?" Tony scoffed and turned to gaze down at Donald. The lines around the corners of his mouth smoothed away. 

"Jethro's not known for his loquacious nature," Donald agreed. There was a pang in him; more for the sense of loss, that he could not feel very guilty this remark.

Tony shook his head. "Ducky, if this is going to work, you're going to have to talk like us mere mortals."

That surprised a laugh out of Donald. "Honestly, I am far from being regarded in such high esteem, Anthony." He cocked his head. "That will be your job."

Tony's grin faded. He cleared his throat. "I'm a replacement."

"You're their new leader." Donald watched as Tony slid off the edge of his desk and walked around the closest metal slab. "They will be seeking your guidance."

" _Me_?"

"You are their 'Boss' now. They'll turn to you."

"Yeah? Well, what about m—" Tony halted. He inhaled sharply. His jaw clenched.

Donald looked around his morgue. He suddenly felt very old, very tired, his bones pulling him down to earth. He wondered if this was what Jethro felt; what had driven him to abandon his charges, his second, and effectively invalidating everything he taught them.

"I'm often down here," Donald began as he gathered up the refuse into the paper sack. "Once, Jethro found it useful to keep me company, talk out loud. Wool-gathering, I suppose."

"Once?"

Donald met Tony's eyes. 

"He left." _But I haven't_ , Donald added to himself.

Tony stared at him long and hard, a wary, wounded creature debating the sanctuary it was being offered. His shoulders relaxed and Tony snorted. Tony looked away, scratching his jaw as if noticing, for the first time, that he has yet to shave. He rounded back his shoulders and slipped on his jacket.

"I'm still here," Tony said quietly. He didn't turn around.

"Yes. We all are." Donald brushed a palm across his desk and swept the crumbs into the paperbag. He balled up the entire lot and at Tony's whistle, tossed it over to him. 

"Duck?" Tony glanced over his shoulder. He smirked but his eyes were serious.

"Get me a Boston cream next time?"

"I most certainly will not," Donald retorted. "I need to introduce you to a salad, Agent DiNozzo."

"Unless it can dance and looks good in a black cocktail dress, no thanks."

Donald rolled his eyes. He chuckled after Tony striding out of the morgue, tall, his step determined. 

Donald found himself still smiling when Mr. Palmer arrived for work. The poor lad, offering to buy breakfast tomorrow, was baffled when Donald asked him to get a donut as well. Boston cream, to be exact.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6\. She'd always wanted to take one of the kettle corn bags and run a full analysis.

Spoilers: 3X23 _"Twilight"_  


There were times when her job was _boring_.

Abby stared resentfully at Major Mass Spec, feeling a little like the i7 processor she installed had turned around and killed her motherboard.

_Bad Mass Spec. Bad._

Every tiny sample in the centrifuge was spinning, dissembling and analyzed for the third time. This time was it, she was sure of it. She patted Mass Spec three times, then a fourth time for luck.

The music today was _Plastic Death_ since _Numeriklab_ was too upbeat for her current mood. Too much 400hz; she needed the reassuring boom of 20hz, thumping like healthy heartbeats under her feet. 

The track she left in a loop was loud, loud enough to drum the ' _bored, bored, bored_ ' mantra out of her head. Apparently, it was too loud for Jimmy, who yelped as he entered the lab, scurried back to where he came, waiting until he made it back to Autopsy before he texted to ask about the results for another case. Abby ignored it; replying would only mean acknowledging how Mass Spec worked for Agent Castor and his boring hit-and-run while it failed to find who killed Lieutenant Frank Rogers and shot a car into a ditch, stranding Gibbs, Tony, Tim and Ziva in the middle of a snow storm and a firefight.

Boring. Her job was _boring_. All she could do was wait for Mass Spec, for AFIS, for hard drives to cooperate and prove their worth in NCIS budgets and give her answers.

Abby looked over to her monitors. Ziva, Tim and Tony's faces were printed out in pixilated 200 dpi and taped along the border. Tony had peered into her cell phone lens, close enough his arched eyebrow and crooked smirk stretched across the image as if he were behind a fish bowl. Tim's picture consisted of only his shoulders and a blurry hand waving frantically at her, vetoing the candid shot. Ziva paused long enough to wink at her, only to have the shot ruined by Tim and Tony's twin 'Look I'm a zombie' expressions, perched on either shoulder. 

There was no picture of Gibbs; he didn't do candid camera. Kate tried to get one for her once, but after a long glare, she gave up. She had promised to get Tim to hack into files and find one for Abby. 

But that was before Ari. That was before everything became dark and sad and dead-permanent. It was a long time before anyone felt like making goofy faces for her phone again. 

Abby sniffled. She shook her head, the ends of her pigtails banging against her cheeks. No, no, snap out of it, she thought. Good thoughts. Good thoughts only. Gibbs called her. They were fine. Good thoughts. Only good thoughts.

"Are you trying to take flight?"

"Tony!" Abby whipped around. She skidded to a halt when Tony thrust out a Caf-Pow between them like a force field.

"No hug?" Abby asked timidly.

Tony grimaced. He held up a bandaged hand like a big white paw. "Not with these ribs. Sorry, Abs."

"Fine," Abby decided as she claimed her Caf-Pow. She took a long, reviving sip of fizzy goodness. "I'm giving you a big squishy hug in my mind."

"Thanks," Tony pretended to wheeze in return. He grinned when she threw the straw wrapper at him. 

Abby stilled when she saw he was alone.

"Ziva and McGee are upstairs, debriefing Madam Director with Gibbs. I was sent down to enable your caffeine habit in exchange for some evidence." Tony leaned against her Mass Spec. Because Tony had the scruffy, 'I need a nap' raccoon look, Abby forgave him for it.

"Are you guys all right?" What a time not to have developed x-ray vision. Abby tentatively approached Tony but stopped within breathing distance, in case her germs might make things worse.

Tony shrugged. "We look like extras from 'Saving Private Ryan'."

Abby made a face. "D Day?"

"Kinda, but with our guts intact and no slo-mo camera action." Tony flicked at one of her pigtails. "We're okay, Abs. Gibbs bruised here and there. McGee has a gash, and a sprained ankle but the doctors saw no need for him to be in the hospital. He doesn't even need stitches, so no manly scars. Ziva broke her index finger and thumb, but trust me, she can still kill with the other eight." Tony scowled. "Although if McGee had stayed, we could have had lunch." He patted his flat stomach.

Abby stuck out her hand. "Money," she demanded. 

"Funny, I think I can hear my medical insurance." Tony cupped an ear. He eyed her hand suspiciously. "I came down here expecting sympathy not a shakedown."

"The vending machines?" Abby reminded him. 

Tony brightened. He tried to fumble out his wallet, but Abby had to fish it out instead from his back pocket. Neither of them was going to mention that, of course.

* * * * *

Abby suspected the food in the break area's vending machines had been there since NCIS was just NIS. She'd always wanted to take one of the kettle corn bags and run a full analysis. Tim advised her sometimes it was better not knowing.

Abby selected a bunch of the nut packs and trail mixes for Ziva since she never indulged in (or succumbed to, as Ziva often put it) any of the available fructose, carrageenan-laced, soy lectithin-based, partially hydrogenated palm kernel treats. Maybe Ziva was wary of them because of the suspicious and ubiquitous artificial flavor number fifteen like Abby was. Abby tried to find out; she had them broken down to six key compounds, about to go further until Tony pleaded with her to stop before the resulting knowledge made it impossible for him to enjoy his snacks.

Her finger faltered on E3 though. The golden raisin trail mix with the chocolate chips was Kate's favorite. After Maureen Ingalls blew herself up with her murdering lover, Tony had dropped off a bag of it on her desk the next day. It was one of the rare times Abby caught Kate smiling at Tony like she wanted to hug him, not strangle him.

Abby moved to E4 instead. Ziva might not like golden raisins anyway.

Since Tim was still determined to hit the gym five times a week, Abby snagged a couple of the protein bars for him. She made a face when she scanned the ingredients. She mentally made a list in her head, to look them up later. After a beat, she tucked the peanut butter flavored one into her lab coat pocket. Major Mass Spec needed to do some extra credit to be back on her good side anyway.

Double chocolate crunchy bar, cookies and cream bar, peanuts bar, fruit jelly bar…Abby punched every button that held captive a brightly wrapped treat. Bonus points if they had goofy faces on them. As the arm twirled and released B2, B3 and B5 into the receptacle below, Abby checked each expiration date. She discarded the ones that wouldn't expire for another three years. Long expiration dates usually meant chemistry degrees went into brewing these gooey, sweet concoctions. Abby rescued the Raisnets though. Tony did get her a Caf-Pow.

Her pockets were bulging, pulling on the seams at her shoulders by the time she got everything she could. Abby stared at the dozen quarters left on her palm. She stuck her lower lip out and stared at the clear glass door, thinking. There was nothing in there to substitute for coffee. Knowing Gibbs, he would slip away to get that for himself. 

"A sandwich might be better."

Spinning around nearly emptied her pockets. Tony's chocolate covered toffee bar flew out but was rescued with a simple stretch of an arm.

Gibbs glanced at the object in his bandaged hand. No reaction, not even at her pockets bursting full and crinkling loudly every time she moved. Blue eyes. Colorless when they looked at her. Waiting. Because Gibbs never asks. He never has to. He's Gibbs. He was like the Marine Psychic. 

"Tony said they didn't have lunch." Abby patted her pockets. "And he gave me a twenty and I figured he didn't want his change back in coins because his jeans has really, really tight pockets and I had to slip my hand all the way—no, you didn't hear that—and you were all shot at and you all almost _died_ and he got me a Caf-Pow and…" She stopped.

Gibbs stared back silently.

"If I hug you, will you break?" Abby asked hesitantly. A beat later, she smushed her face into the broad chest. Arms quietly went around her. 

It wasn't a squishy hug, her pockets crammed with cellophane wrapped fructose, soy-based, artificially flavored stuff that crackled like peeling egg shells. But she didn't care; they left as four and came back as four.

"We're fine, Abby."

Abby nodded against him, unable to speak because she was too busy sniffling. She stepped back. Gibbs let her.

"You got something for me, Abs?"

A louder sniff, one that drew up her shoulders briefly and Abby nodded.

"I think so. Major Mass Spec is almost finished but it could still take some time. Tony's waiting downstairs for it, but he knows not to touch it—he better not—and I figured we could all eat in the office and wait and—"

"I meant that." Gibbs nodded to the machines behind her. Abby wanted to hug him again but instead, she turned back to the display.

The rows of food still held no answers, as helpful as Mass Spec and it took two scans and a pout before she decided on A5. The Chex party mix baggie dropped down with a subdued crinkle. 

Abby nodded to herself as she inspected the final snack. It was full of sodium. It had nachos. It had pretzels. It had funny looking cracker things. It had a manly crunch. She tossed it over to Gibbs, who caught it easily and studied it with all the intensity he would any piece of evidence Abby ever gave him. He lifted his gaze. The corner of his mouth quirked.

"Perfect." And Gibbs pivoted around and headed for the elevator.

Abby patted her pockets and beamed at his departing back. "I think so too," she said to no one in particular. She trotted to him and the elevator Gibbs held open for her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7\. "When I said come over for dinner, it didn't put rearranging the furniture on the menu."

Not surprisingly, the door was unlocked.

Tony walked in, whistling as he set down the bags. The beer in one bag clinked together, the other bag _thunked_ as still-thawing steaks were set down on the table.

Everything was still in the drying rack so he emptied it and left the dishes stacked on the tiny dining table. His cell beeped. He checked it, grunted, and fired back a response with a few thumb presses. 

The fridge was empty of course. They were in Dayton for a good part of the week. They made it back before the rest of the country was flying out. He arranged the beer in the fridge, lined them up against the wall to make room. It was wishful thinking though, he knew, to believe there might be a need to fill the shelf later.

Another beep. Tony checked his phone again, tsked and vetoed it in one hundred characters or less. If he'd answered in all caps, it wasn't because he was yelling. Stupid shift key had locked.

Tony stood back, arms folded across his chest and surveyed the table. He shook his head and moved everything to the coffee table in the living area instead. Then he shoved the television back, hoping relocating it wouldn’t render the rabbit ears useless.

"DiNozzo, what the hell are you doing?"

Tony grinned before looking up at Gibbs filling the doorway. "Hey, Boss. Done with the boat for today?"

"When I said come over for dinner, it didn't put rearranging the furniture on the menu."

"Well, figured we need the space."

Gibbs darkened. "Space for what?"

The knock at the door made them both look up.

Tony brightened. "That would be McGee." He clapped his hands together to shake off the dust—geez, you would think Marines would be tidier—and maneuvered around Gibbs to open the door just as McGee raised his fist to knock a second time.

"He never locks it," Tony reminded him. 

McGee laughed nervously.

"Yeah, I forgot." McGee froze when he sighted Gibbs past Tony's shoulder.

"B-boss!"

"McGee," Gibbs acknowledged in an even voice, but still managed to squeeze "What the hell?" between the lines. Tony grimaced. He grabbed the bag from McGee's white-knuckled grip and poked his nose in. He lifted his eyes.

"Leftover sweet potato casserole." McGee kept darting his gaze towards Gibbs as he followed Tony into the living room. 

"Marshmallows?" Tony asked hopefully. At McGee's eye roll, Tony checked the bag again. Score!

"After five texts reminding me, you think I'd forget?"

Tony popped a white, sugary pillow into his mouth. It melted into a gooey mess on his tongue.

"DiNozzo…"

Wow, that one had all the grumble of Marlon Brando except he wasn't giving Tony an offer he can't refuse here. It was more like the warning before the king of all headslaps.

Tony turned on his heels in a single, smooth move that would make a Marine (or a former Marine) proud. He held up his hands. Hopefully the universal 'I surrender' gesture translated well into Gibbs-speak.

"Now, Boss—"

Another knock at the door.

Gibbs' gaze narrowed and cast over Tony's shoulder. He said nothing though and McChicken hid in the living room with the casserole. He better not eat all the marshmallows.

"It's open!" Tony sing-songed, not turning around because wasn't there something about keeping eye contact so they don't eat/claw/shred/dismantle/headslap/possess you? 

The thud of boots announced Abby before her voice bubbled over.

"Am I late?" Abby bounced in (it was the only way to describe the frenetic hop, stride, spin, skip thing she does after her morning double dose of Caf-Pow) and stopped between them. "Ooh, testosterone showdown?"

"What did you bring?" Tony demanded, eyes still front, trying to remember which National Geographic special warned him against blinking, too. 

The recycled tote bag she slung over a bent elbow was shoved under his nose. Tony relaxed. Everything smelled familiar; all June Cleaver homemaker smells and nothing with seaweed, soybeans or tofu. One time, with Kate, the two went on some vegan health kick and the bullpen smelled like rotting grass for weeks.

"Mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and Sister Rosita's poppers," Abby announced. "She had leftovers too. Tons! Ducky's bringing the turkey and Jimmy is bringing some of his mom's stuffing." She wrinkled her nose.

"Is it still stuffing if it's outside the turkey?"

Tony glanced over to Gibbs, whose dark and scary expression looked less scary but still dark. Deeming it safe to look away though, Tony focused on Abby. More specifically, her green and pink skull-dotted tote.

"Why don't you ask Probie in there?" Tony mumbled. He shoved an arm deep into her bag and fished out the first thing within reach. He chomped on what looked like a golden, puffy, crispy nugget the size of his thumb. 

"He's setting up the DVD player. Where's Ziva—" Tony coughed, wheezed when the crunchy crust and the salty tang of cheese erupted between his teeth and scorched down his throat.

"Abby, you didn't say they were _jalapeño_ poppers!"

Abby pounded his hunched back, which wasn't helpful, but he appreciated the sentiment. Well, he _would_ when he stopped coughing.

"Ziva's helping Ducky because I told her potato latkes are not really traditional for Thanksgiving—oops." Abby's mouth snapped shut.

Through tearing eyes—way to go, Sister Rosita—Tony peered up. Gibbs was gone and judging the from the absence of panicked sounds in the living room, Gibbs hadn’t beat a strategic retreat to there. Tony eyed the basement door. 

Damn it, he should have brought a chain and padlock. Then again, Gibbs could probably snap through it with a pinky.

"I didn't mean…" Abby murmured.

Tugging gently on a pigtail, Tony straightened. He arched his back, waited for his stomach to stop playing volcano and nudged Abby towards the living room. "Help McGee set up, will you?" 

Abby was biting her lower lip as she let herself be steered towards the living room. "Tony…"

"It'll be fine, Abby." 

Abby nodded absently. "Make sure he's okay with this, Tony." Her dark eyes skewered him. It was unnerving, how sure she seemed. "If he wants us to go. We'll go."

Tony shook his head. "He doesn't want us to go."

"You sure?"

"Positive." Tony grinned. "Why don't you go help McGee and give him one of those poppers while you're at it?"

"All right, but he doesn't usually like the mild ones."

Tony goggled after her. He smacked his lips together—it was like licking the pepper spray cannister—before he headed for the basement door.

* * * * *

It was no surprise Gibbs was by his workbench, bent over whatever it was that would eventually become a boat. He ignored Tony standing on the third to the last step in favor of scraping away at a plank of wood with the tool in his hands. Golden curls dropped to the floor silently, pretty much matching Gibbs' mood.

"You know, Ziva thought Black Friday meant she had to dress all in black," Tony began. "It didn't make sense to her what that have to do with the pilgrims invading America, unless we were grieving with the Native Americans." Course, that was a whole other issue entirely that Tony hoped someone (other than him) would explain to her.

Another scrape left a pile of woody springs by Gibbs' boot.

"We all flew back in late last night. McGee missed family dinner but there are always enough leftovers." Tony leaned against the wall, staying on the step. He wondered what it must have felt like: to be missed, even at a table full of other people clamoring for attention.

Tony slipped his hands in his pockets. 

"Palmer had his dinner yesterday but he needed to be back here because we have weekend duty so he couldn't stay."

The sandpaper came out this time. Tony noted it was the number six one as it dragged across the surface.

"And Abby…well…the nuns have their soup kitchen. It gets busy on Thursday and Friday. Doesn't leave much time to sit down."

There was a brief pause, brief before the sanding continued with renewed vigor. Tony counted it as a victory.

"Ducky's mother is in the nursing home," Tony continued in a lower voice. "Looks like Victoria will be spending Christmas there, too."

Gibbs' head raise minutely at that, enough so Tony could catch the shadows in his eyes. 

The stairs creaked as Tony shifted from foot to foot.

"Look, I know Thursday is not really your thing," Tony began. He watched the paper go up and down. It was hypnotic. He shook himself out of his reverie. "Me neither. It's just a day where they show marathons and parades. It's not a big deal for you. You have your boat, I have…well…we were usually working that day." 

Gibbs acknowledged that with a grunt.

Tony shrugged. At least, Gibbs didn't throw one of those boat making tools at him. Maybe he would reach instead for the power sander Tony had given him for his birthday a few years ago. He wasn't sure why he kept it around anyway.

"Every year on the day after, we do steak, beer and that was fine." Tony's shoulders rose again. "I didn't need the whole Waltons, Jimmy Stewart black-and-white shtick. I don't think I missed anything."

For some reason, Gibbs stopped entirely and was looking at him. 

Not questioning his good luck, Tony dared another step down. "But hey, I figured maybe we could all do something this year since Ducky, Abby, Ziva…you know." 

It was a little freaky how Gibbs was just staring at him, like he was expecting Tony to say something that would solve the case. Only there wasn't a case to be solved. Just potatoes, pie and turkey upstairs.

Tony schooled a grin at Gibbs. "Hey, just say the word or grunt and they're out of here. I brought over steaks and they could be grilling in the fireplace before you could say _Semper Fi_." He canted his head, thinking before adding, "But I'm keeping the marshmallows."

It surprised the hell out of him when Gibbs turned his head a bit and scoffed, which was the Marine equivalent of a full belly laugh. He dropped the sandpaper on the workbench and clapped his hands together to shake off the dust.

"So was that a yes to steak or yes to turkey?" Tony's smile widened at Gibbs' eyebrow. "I'll let Abby know." He fumbled out his collapsible blade—a gift from Gibbs that was neither for birthday or Christmas but Tony made sure never to lose it all the same.

"You want dark meat or light?" Tony called out as he climbed the stairs. "Better call dibs now. We rock, paper, scissor’d for it yesterday and I got carving duty."

"Tony."

Tony's foot hung over a step. He checked over his shoulder. Gibbs stood at the foot of the stairs. 

"Just say the word," Tony said, sobering. He swallowed, wondering what he would tell Abby. It didn't matter to him. It didn't. But Abby would be disappointed.

Gibbs' mouth curled up at the corners. He nodded towards Tony's blade.

"You can't carve a bird with that." Gibbs' steady tread. "I have a carving knife in the kitchen somewhere."

The blade snapped back into the handle with a satisfying _click_ as they both left the basement in search of a proper knife.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meatloaf. No one's asked to pass the damn mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, for them, it was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8\. The coffee still tasted like mud.

Spoilers: 8X22 _"Baltimore"_  


The coffee still tasted like mud.

Jethro took one more bite of his eggs, mopping up the yolk with the last of his toast. Chewing slowly, he looked up when he heard the bell on top of the entrance ring. He took a long draught from a chipped mug as he watched his probie enter the diner. He didn't call him over, content to observe as he had for weeks after the young agent passed FLETC training with flying colors.

Hair slicked back, grinning and winking at every waitress who paused to give him a second look, Anthony DiNozzo looked every bit as cocky as when he had sauntered into the Navy Yard three months ago. _Still_ as cocky, Jethro amended, his eyes narrowing as he remembered the fiasco last week. While he appreciated and encouraged initiative, chasing off after a possible murderer on his own was not one of his rules. His gut was telling him though his list of twenty was about to get longer.

Jethro nodded towards the waitress—he didn't remember their names, but they remember him or at least his need for perpetual refills—and slid his cup to the side so it could be topped up.

From the way DiNozzo straightened, his hands coming out of his pockets, Jethro knew he's been sighted. DiNozzo gave the rest of the diner another glance. Jethro noted with a small smile; he could see him mentally checking off who in the diner looked like a threat. Good. 

"Didn't think anyone outside the force had heard about this place. A lot of beat cops told me it’s a good place to grab a cheap lunch." DiNozzo shrugged out of his leather jacket and slid into the booth across from him. "How did _you_ know about this place?"

Jethro lifted a shoulder. DiNozzo rolled his eyes.

"Let me guess. Your gut? You should market that. It's better than MapQuest." DiNozzo plucked out at the laminated menu tucked between the ketchup bottle and the napkin dispenser. He glanced at it, his green eyes flicking across the page with manufactured interest, then gave up the pretense. He sighed and lowered the menu.

"All right, what did I screw up?"

Jethro raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think you screwed up?"

"You've been more silent and brooding since the Abbot case. You make Charlie Chaplin look like a chatterbox." DiNozzo snapped the menu shut and set it down between them. He met Jethro's gaze squarely. "So what is it? Are we going to lose the Abbot case?"

Jethro leaned into the bench and stared at DiNozzo. "We're not going to lose the Abbot case," he said finally. "The evidence you got when you were undercover was solid."

DiNozzo beamed at the waitress who set down a glass of ice water. He took a gulp of water and ice cubes. Wet crunching garbled his words briefly as he chewed on the ice. 

"So what's the problem?"

"You."

The crunching stopped. "But you just said—"

"Going after Abbot on your own was stupid, DiNozzo," Jethro growled. He shoved his plate aside to jab a finger on the table between them. "I said to wait for me."

"Abbot was getting ready to run," DiNozzo echoed what he told Gibbs before. This time though, there was no abrupt snap of his cell phone hanging up on him.

"Petty officer Abbot was three seconds from putting a bullet in your head when I finally figured out where you two were." Jethro could feel the muscle in his jaw jump. "You're damn lucky Abby's GPS is good."

"See?" DiNozzo grinned toothily at him. "No harm, no foul."

"This time." Jethro glared at him. "You don't leave your partners behind."

The smile faded. "Is that one of those Marine rules, Gibbs?" DiNozzo asked archly. "Like always have a knife?"

"This shouldn't have to be a rule," Jethro snapped. Frustration roiled in his chest. DiNozzo didn't seem as stupid back in Baltimore. Hell, he and Price…

Jethro paused. He tamped down on his irritation and narrowed his eyes. Jethro saw the shadows brewing in his eyes, the strain at the corners of his smirk. He frowned into his coffee.

"What?" DiNozzo asked warily.

"If this is going to work," Jethro said slowly, "You're going to have to trust me to watch your six."

"I do," DiNozzo insisted.

"Do you?" Leaning forward, Jethro studied DiNozzo. "It didn't look like it with Abbot. I told you to wait. You didn't. And it's not the first time. Carver? Backings?" At his probie's scowl, Jethro shook his head.

"Damn it, DiNozzo. I can't keep turning around to find out you'd have gone off on your own."

"I closed the case," DiNozzo replied, low. "I got the job done."

"Great, but the cases should be closed together," Jethro snapped. "This isn't Baltimore!"

DiNozzo froze. A red flush rose from his neck.

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?" 

Jethro simply stared at him. 

Slumping back, DiNozzo tipped his glass back and crunched on some more ice. Loudly. After a beat, he stopped.

"Am I being fired?"

"Like I said before, I don't waste good."

"Ah yes, the rule book." Smirking faintly, DiNozzo rubbed a hand to the back of his neck. "Look, I know you're all about Semper Fi and everything hammered into you from Parris Island. I appreciate that. I just…" DiNozzo shrugged. "Maybe it's better if I just…move on."

Jethro pressed his mouth together—although whether it was for the words or the sound of the damn ice cubes DiNozzo was eating as if they were bones, he hadn’t decided. 

"Peoria, Philly, Baltimore now DC. Where next? You call that moving on?" Jethro didn't know about the first two. DiNozzo never offered; Jethro never asked. He saw it in everything his probie does; DiNozzo licked his wounds from miles away. 

"I was thinking of Miami," DiNozzo quipped. "Sun, surf, string bikinis…"

Jethro said nothing. He looked at DiNozzo, waiting.

The smirk flipped and the rest of DiNozzo’s body finally looked as tired as his eyes. 

"What do you want, Gibbs?"

"What I want," Jethro said quietly, "is someone who'll watch my six and trust me to do the same, Tony."

Something flitted in DiNozzo's eyes at his name. 

"I can do the first," DiNozzo said solemnly. He took a deep breath. "Can I get back to you on the second?"

Jethro nodded. "Fair enough."

"Might take a while." An overly bright smile flashed. "I'm a sensitive kind of guy."

Jethro didn't smile back. He gazed back, mouth unsmiling. "I can wait."

DiNozzo's smile flickered, faded but the hopeful gleam in his eyes remained. He averted his gaze and cleared his throat.

"So what's edible here?" DiNozzo said in a long suffering voice. "Anything worth me driving around forty minutes to find this place?"

"Coffee's decent," Jethro remarked as he drained his mug.

"Coming from you, that's not really a ringing endorsement." DiNozzo frowned as he flipped through the menu. He pulled a hand away and squinted at his fingers. He made a face and set down the menu.

"I'll get something from the vending machines later."

Ignoring him, Jethro pointed the menu with his empty mug. "Orange juice's like battery acid. The pancakes are good." Jethro pushed the menu closer to DiNozzo. "Get the pancakes."

DiNozzo ordered the steak and eggs.

Yeah, he'd work out just fine.

 

** The End **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite threats of harm, penfold-x whipped out her red pen and despite the hour, got this betaed, polished and done. _(I now owe her a gazillion karma points though)_. Much love, cookies and hugs to you!
> 
> I must also tip my hat to brate7 who saw its conception and, like penfold-x, patiently (I hope), weathered all my questions, my 'tweaking' and my general fic posting panic.
> 
> I would say "Never again" but alas, you know me better. 
> 
> And always, to the mods of ncis_bigbang, much love and squishy hugs to you for this wonderful playground. See you next year!
> 
>   
> Pssst: Feedback is like cookies. I like cookies. _-lol-_  
> 


End file.
